I spun around, searching for help, for someone to give a shit. My hands bled from the thorny fruit; the bellowing of the monkeys rang in my ears, their calls still clear, though they were probably already a few kilometers away. I felt slightly deaf, heatstroked, a little bit out of my mind.

Beyond Paco, up the hill, stood the old woman I’d seen with the lepers that morning that felt so long ago. Beya. She leaned on her cane, contemplating me. At her feet sat a small cloth bag that moved slightly, as if whatever was inside was trying to get out, or was fighting with another occupant. Mouth grim and straight, ears bright with feathers, she stared at me with a mix of curiosity and sadness. How long had she been standing there, watching this circus? A chill bloomed in the base of my spine, even in all the mind-bending heat.

Suddenly dizzy, I braced my hands on my knees and closed my eyes for a few seconds, before slowly opening them. Her gaze intensified. I took a step back. The electric buzz of insects whined louder. She seemed to shimmer under the diamond sun, come into focus, then vanish into the pattern of branches and leaves behind her. A palpable, pulsating energy flowed between her and the forest, a buzzing, unbroken loop. I blinked again, trying to shake off the white noise that crashed inside my ears.

I heard her voice—it had to be her—whisper in Spanish, as clearly as if she were standing next to me, “WHY ARE YOU HERE? THIS IS NOT YOUR FOREST.”

Her lips had not moved.

The voice trailed away in my head, like the rasping of leaves on a fall night. She had spoken without making a sound; that or I was losing my mind. She dropped her eyes, picked up her bag, turned, and made her way up the hill.

Paco pushed himself off his seat on the keg and walked down to the bank where I stood, dumbstruck from the theft and from the woman’s voice in my head. He wrapped his sticky little hand around my finger. I yanked him around to face me. “Did you hear that?” I hissed.

He looked at me as if trying to figure out what I wanted to hear, what would make me happy. “I just hear monkeys.”

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “She spoke to me.”

“Was it out loud, or in your head?”

“In my head.”

“Was it something nice?”

“Not really.”

Paco watched me thoughtfully as I gazed up at everything I owned besides the clothes on my back, hanging among the leaves and branches above us.

“Come with me. I’ll make you a comb,” Paco said very seriously.

Gesturing at me to follow him, he walked toward a low-lying palm plant, its slender fronds picking up the morning light with a greasy sheen. With a stubby-handled knife, he sliced off a thick, waxy branch, and with quick, practiced movements snapped out every other frond, creating a bright green comb.